“Anniversary” – Departures of Old Year

Anniversary

I walk the plowed road. Even brown slush
glistens in the sun. Last year this day
my father died, briefly. In an elbowed rush,
they brought him back. I don’t know the way
of such things, only that they blessed us with four
days more–time to fly, drive, arrive, live, be…
our suddenly fleet feet bare on the raised floor
of the urgent now, the only-this now, the
now not everlasting. We defended, then,
from the tubes that made life possible, also
impossible; doing all one does when
one h0pes for still to do; saying, low,I love you in the lightening of the dim maze
that’s death, arms around arms, returning gaze.

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A reading of the poem:

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Here’s a draft sonnet (of sorts – I know the meter is not exact) written as the old year, a rather hard one for me, departs.

58 Comments on ““Anniversary” – Departures of Old Year”

Some of your last poems have given me such a sense of being in the moment, like this line”the only-this now” of the urgent now”
now not everlasting” as if you were threading the now through the moment! I love your perspective of now!

Ah, no ‘nows’ are everlasting. At least the bringing back allowed you to have a few days with your father, valuable time I imagine for you; but I find myself wondering how it was for him…..hopefully good as well. Life is so fragile, and sometimes we don’t know when to say good – bye or whether we are making the right decision or not. But being able to say “I love you” one more time is indeed a valuable thing!

the only-this now, the
now not everlasting…this is unltimately how we should live as we never know how short our time is, you know…those extra days are a blessing when it is someone so dear as well…..happy new year k

As others have said. a true capture of the urgency and immediacy that ‘this-now’ can have, where past and future are totally irrelevant except as vague landmarks…I like it that even brown slush cn glow, and that we can defend from what makes things possible and impossible alike, in that brief electric moment. Best wishes for a Happy New Year, Karin, and a healing time for all the wounds.

That’s a very hard memory to live through, Karin, especially as it’s bound to occur for the rest of your life, after the first year and a day of recovery from loss. I hope you will wake one New Year’s Eve, and feel at peace.

you know the one line that moved me so very deeply in this was…
I don’t know the way
of such things….no we don’t… we never…it moves beyond our control and we just have to accept…really k. – moved me deeply..happy new year to you

This is so wonderfully grounded, starting with the details of the road, the glistening slush…
“I don’t know the way of such things…” You examine inevitability and create power and beauty in the description of it. What I admire most is the completeness of this work in so few lines. A very excellent piece.
SK

This is amazing, Karin–one of your best yet. I embrace the subtle message of the importance of an Advance Directive (which I’ve had for many years. In your situation, I see the blessing in resuscitation in this case…but then how hard to make decisions for a loved one. Very sensitive and touching poem.

Thanks,Victoria. It (resuscitation) is such a thorny issue. My father was already under a certain kind of hospice care, but my mom didn’t quite realize what that meant. We did–when it was clear that he really would not be able to survive long – take the tubes out and bring him home. This allowed him to be fully conscious really until his last breath which was just a huge blessing. It was hard as this type of thing may also hasten someone’s death by a short while (beyond what modern medicine could sustain with tubing and sedation) but he was so awake and alive until the last moment, that it was really pretty remarkable. Thanks again for all your support this year. Have a wonderful new year. k.

factual and yet feeling-rich, touching… my mother died this past year too, rather unexpectedly.
loved “our suddenly fleet feet bare on the raised floor
of the urgent now, the only-this now, the
now not everlasting” & altogether the way your poem put me at the scene

your last line sticks with me. that’s death, arms around arms, returning gaze. a beautiful depiction of exchanged love and holding. Even brown slush glistens in the sun is a really beautiful testament to hope and life. This is a great poem, Karin.

You’ve done a magnificent job of capturing the scrabble and scramble to lengthen life. carefully modulated to extract an emotional and cerebral surge of recognition. Some outstanding phrases – this the most powerful, for me (a painful memory of my mother’s death)

Hi Becky – no, I haven’t worked any more on the poem since posting. I think that there are pretty much five feet per line but I didn’t worry about iambs. I tend to use more of a syllabic count and then will test the feet every now and again. I know some people i.e. Luke Prater (Ha!) think one shouldn’t use the label sonnet without iambic pentameter though.

If you have any suggestions please feel free to make them. Thanks much. k.

Was just curious really… I like the technical stuff and always interested to see where other poets are coming from on sonneteering. It reads very well I think and I love the fact that although end-rhymed the effect is so subtle..totally fitting to allow the emotional impact to well up during the read.

This is even better second time around. Sucj a good example of understatement.

It is interesting to see how people approach things. As I mentioned, I tend to approach meter through rough syllable counts, allowing myself a sort of range, and then listening if the feet sound right. k.

becky has beat me to it
on almost every point, so i shall agree with becky:
a great example of understatement and the reading delivers it all
so well . . . the subtlety is key and well crafted for max emo impact
in lo-fi minimalism . . . Perfect! 🙂